


Little Boy Blue

by james



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Angst, Father issues, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-25
Updated: 2010-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:18:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ivan sometimes wishes he had a father to talk to.  Written for angst_bingo, square "moments lost."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Boy Blue

When Ivan was fifteen he'd long since learned that his mother was a lot smarter than most people gave her credit for, and that if he really, really didn't want to talk about something she most likely already knew what it was. Judging by his Aunt Cordelia and cousin, however, he wasn't sure that it was just _his_ mother, but rather something that all mothers had the knack for.

It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to her, really, but he was pretty sure what he wanted to say would upset her. It seemed like lately anytime he made his own decision about something it upset her. Going off for the weekend with Karl and Fyoder to camp out might not have annoyed her too badly if is hadn't been for the mead they'd got drunk on -- and if he'd remembered to tell her beforehand, instead of after.

When he'd pointed out that clearly she'd known where he was otherwise she'd have dragooned ImpSec to search for him, he'd gotten his week-long grounding increased to a month along with being required to act as usher and server at no less than three of his mother's parties. Correct attire, flawless manners, and smiling and bowing and escorting Vor ladies to their chairs while they cooed over him and ruffled his hair wasn't worth getting drunk on the horse's ass piss that was mead.

Next time he was stealing a bottle of Uncle Aral's good wine.

Ivan frowned as he thought of his uncle, because he knew who it was he wanted to talk to. His mother would find out, sure, but sometimes... Ivan sighed. Sometimes a guy just wanted to talk to a man, and not his mother.

Of course, the last serious talk he'd had with his uncle had been when he'd been caught necking with the Vorkosigan's maid, Annika. The lecture about proper behavior and hormones still had Ivan blushing, and he'd sworn to himself he would make sure to never let something like that happen again.

But this wouldn't be anything like that, surely? All he wanted was someone else's perspective, someone who might understand where Ivan was coming from and who wouldn't automatically tell him his mother knew best and to do whatever she told him to. And, Ivan had to admit, he wanted that talk to be with his uncle. Miles always made it sound like Uncle Aral was fair-handed and knew how to listen; even if his uncle did tell him to do as his mother had planned, and join the military like a good little Vor -- at least it would be because Uncle Aral had considered Ivan's objections and thought about Ivan's arguments against it.

At least he was pretty sure he would. Ivan hadn't ever had a serious talk with his uncle before, but he'd been carefully pestering Miles about it off and on for awhile, and Miles kept saying that his da always _listened_ before he yelled.

Ivan stared at the back door of Vorkosigan House, the same door he always used when he wasn't in his mother's company. Normally one of the manservants let him in, or caught him within a few feet of having let himself in and directed him to where-ever his cousin was. This time he paused briefly and considered that he might go around to the front door and let himself be announced, as it was his uncle he'd come to see.

It was too late to change his mind, however, because Pym was opening the back door and giving Ivan a patient look, already gesturing towards the wing where Miles' rooms were.

"I, thanks, but-- d'you know where I could find Uncle Aral?" Ivan managed not to stammer, feeling his heart beat a hundred times a minute.

Pym didn't so much as twitch, but said, "Lord Vorkosigan is in the main library. Shall I--"

"Thanks," Ivan said quickly, ducking around Pym's arm and avoiding the formal announcement of his arrival. It didn't really surprise him when Pym overtook him within three steps, glancing over his shoulder to give Ivan a warning glare to wait in the hallway as Pym knocked on the library door. Ivan heard his uncle's voice telling Pym to enter, then as Pym slipped into the library, Ivan snuck forward.

"What is it, Pym?" his uncle asked. He sounded not irritated or busy, which Ivan counted as a good thing. He still wasn't convinced this was the right thing to do, but, as he'd told himself several times before, his uncle was the best choice for a sounding board and, if nothing else, at least he'd be fair with his assessment.

"Lord Vorpatril to see you, sir," Pym said.

There was a slight pause, then, "Ivan? What does the kid want?"

"I couldn't say, sir, only that he arrived by the back door and his mother did not send ahead any word of his arrival."

Ivan frowned. It wasn't like he couldn't do his mother's errands without her sending notes; even though this time it was his own errand, he would have liked to think he was old enough to be trusted with some little thing of his mother's without her telling his aunt or uncle exactly what he was coming over for. He wasn't a kid any more and he'd learned...sort of..how to avoid his cousin Miles when he really honestly definitely had to get back home with whatever his mother wanted and not get side-tracked into one of Miles' escapades.

He heard his uncle sigh. "Well, send him in. I'm sure it can't be that important or Alys would have warned us. And let Cordelia know I'll be working this afternoon, in case she's made lunch plans."

"Very good, M'Lord," Pym said, and Ivan scurried backwards, away from the door.

He looked up Pym as he came out of the library. He'd almost caught up to him in height, though he still felt intimidated by the man. He tried not to look as though he'd been eavesdropping -- tried not to look like he'd heard his Uncle Aral dismiss him without having even heard a word he'd come to say.

"You may see Lord Vorkosigan now," Pym said, and Ivan swallowed, then forced himself towards the library door before Pym asked him what was wrong.

He pushed the door open, saw his uncle sitting at the desk, flimsies and books spread out before him. Definitely interrupting _something,_ Ivan realised, and maybe he should have called ahead and asked for a more convenient time.

His uncle didn't even glance up as Ivan stepped into the room; Ivan wiped his hands on his trousers, and tried to remember the opening line he'd come up with. It wasn't a shameful thing, to want to study law. It wasn't what his father or grandfather had done, but it was a perfectly respectable profession for a man of Ivan' class. His mother had always talked about him going into the military, never even once asking if Ivan had any ideas on the matter. But then, she'd already lined up five or six 'acceptable families' for him to choose a wife from, so Ivan wasn't really keen on telling her he'd like the chance to plan his own future.

But with his uncle's blessing, maybe he could. His heart was beating even faster now, and so loudly that he was certain Uncle Aral had to hear it. But his uncle didn't even look up as Ivan took another step nearer, then when he did finally look up Ivan could see the resigned expression on his face.

"Well, Ivan, spit it out. I haven't got all day."

Ivan's mouth dropped open, then he snapped it shut, then, frantically, he said, "Mother wants to know if she can have two bottles of the Monteray wine. She said, the good, but not best, stuff."

He wanted to smack himself even as the words came out, but his uncle leaned back in his chair, waving a hand and already turning back to his work as he said, "That's fine. Tell Pym. Does she only need two?"

Ivan nodded, and stammered, "Yes, sir," when his uncle didn't look up to see the nod.

"That's fine. Give her my compliments," he said, and Ivan only managed a barely squeaked out, 'yes sir,' before he bolted from the room.

He found Pym in the hallway not too far away and repeated his request for the wine. Pym merely told him to wait where he was, and went off to get it.

Ivan stood where he was, head down, looking at the floor tile and berated himself for chickening out. He ought to try again. He could turn around and go back in, pretend the faked errand was his excuse for a conversation. He'd stood there only a few moments, however, when he heard the hesitant clambering of footsteps on the stairs; he recognised his cousin's careful gait even before he'd raised his head to look. Miles gave him a cheerful wave, grinning maniacally.

"Oh good, Ivan! You're here. Wait there, I'll be right back!" Miles hurried past him and into the library. Ivan heard Miles speak to his father, heard Uncle Aral's voice, too soft for words but the tone was unmistakeable. There was no annoyance in his words, no impatience at being interrupted by his son.

Their conversation continued as Ivan stood there, and when Pym re-appeared with the two bottles of wine, Ivan snatched them out of his hands. "Thank you," he managed, politeness an ingrained reflex. He turned and dashed for the back door, only hoping he could be out and gone before Miles returned.

He should have known, Ivan told himself as he raced down the long walk, bottles of wine tucked carefully under his arms. _Ivan the idiot,_ his uncle called him, his aunt as well when they thought he couldn't hear.

Or maybe they knew. Maybe it didn't matter, because he was only a nephew, and not a son. Not even a foster son -- no one important like Gregor, at any rate. Not Miles, their real son, and Ivan should have known Uncle Aral wouldn't want to talk to him. _Idiot,_ he thought to himself, clinging to the bottles of wine.

Ivan continued running down the street, dodging through traffic and turning his steps away from his own street and down towards Fyoder's neighborhood. Fyoder still had all his camping gear; his own father hadn't cared a whit when the boys had snuck off camping, had only told them not to get themselves arrested. Wine was a hundred times better than mead, anyhow.


End file.
